


clouds between their knees

by alongthewatchtower



Series: the right to bleed [1]
Category: Smallville, Supergirl (TV 2015), Superman - All Media Types, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alien Pheromones, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, M/M, Rimming, Scott McCall is a Bad Friend, Stiles-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2016-10-17
Packaged: 2018-08-23 00:26:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8306807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alongthewatchtower/pseuds/alongthewatchtower
Summary: Stiles and his alien superhero boyfriend. It's not like he left the weird behind in Beacon Hills, or anything.
 
 
  I blame Tyler Hoechlin being cast as Superman, because now Clark Kent obviously needs a Stiles.





	

Stiles’ favourite way to describe his boyfriend always includes the words _out of this world._  


_Oh yeah, he has abs that are just otherworldly. His pumpkin pie recipe? Out of this world._

Then he cracks up laughing, usually to the mild confusion of whoever he’s talking to, while Clark Kent rolls his eyes.

 

Stiles gets great amusement from cramming all the alien references he can into conversation, usually at the ridiculous Metropolis events Clark attends to cover for the _Daily Planet_. Stiles has a brand new tux he wears more than he would normally have any need to, as a copy edit intern for the _Daily Planet_ , but when your gorgeous boyfriend needs a plus one to act as a deterrent to the society matrons who like to try and pinch his cheeks (difficult, seeing as Clark’s skin is basically invulnerable, and not at all susceptible to pinching, the kind of automatic defence mechanism that somehow doesn’t translate to when Stiles pinches his ass), and a distraction to Lois’ questions when some hapless stick-up man inevitably tries to rob the museum benefit only to be stopped by the dashing Superman (whose own brand new tux and glasses disguise are hastily stuffed behind that weird elephant statue).

 

The thing is, Clark is kind of a giant dork. He always blushes when he’s complimented, always remembers their whatever-month anniversary (and brings home Chinese from the place where they had their first date), is entranced by the cheesy sci-fi movies Stiles watches whenever he misses his Dad ( _but Stiles! Humanity’s depiction of what’s out there is fascinating!_ ), calls his Mom every Sunday, without fail (even if it has to wait until after the latest Metropolis crisis is done). He’s loyal to a fault, with an unshakeable moral foundation and a bleeding heart that makes Stiles despair sometimes, as he watches this strong - this _superhuman_  being who carries the world on his shoulders, slump over in the shower, tears mixing with water on his face, unable to comprehend the thought that sometimes he just can’t save everyone.

 

Stiles is a Sheriff’s kid. He knows better.

 

Stiles been threatened, indirectly and otherwise, by murderers, hunters of the human variety who’ve been caught outside of season, drunk drivers, and the flowy-skirted woman at the PTA who liked to call John Stilinski a fascist. He keeps a bat beside the bed and there’s a gun in the lockbox underneath the sink, a taser in his hoodie pocket whenever he walks home alone after work. Their neighbourhood in New Troy, where Stiles and Clark live, is okay for being in the borough closest to the Suicide Slums, but there’s still some dark streets between their apartment and the metro stop, and Stiles doesn’t ever assume Clark will always be there.

 

See, Stiles is from Beacon Hills. 

 

Stiles has been threatened by things that go bump in the dark, by humans, monsters themselves, whose zeal for bloodshed and pain is matched only by their hypocrisy. He’s been beaten, betrayed, ignored, disbelieved. He knows there’s things on Planet Earth that defy description, powers and forces no-one can quantify. He was once possessed by a thousand-year-old fox demon. Scars aplenty, faded now, silvery ribbons of slightly uneven skin mar the pale flesh that Clark marvels at, being himself glorious and golden and unable to scar. Their apartment has the strongest wards he could find - hidden underneath the welcome mat, painted along the windowsills in as close a match to the years-old paint beneath as Stiles can manage. These days, Stiles’ pack consists of only himself, a verging-on-retirement Dad and an (almost) invulnerable alien from outer space, no were creatures or banshees or true alphas to be found. He moved to the other side of the country for Columbia’s journalism program before moving to Metropolis, away from the supernatural nexus that is Beacon Hills, away from sideways glances and distrust and the way his phone would only ring when someone wanted something from him. He looks at Clark - _Kal-El_ ’s cousin Kara, bubbly and bright and somehow blind to the darkness to be found in humanity, and wonders cynically where her line is, what will break her, the thing that will take that naivete and warp it into something like Clark’s tormented soul, the way he clings fiercely to the light, midwestern good-boy charm of Clark Kent rather than the terrible power of his birthright. 

 

Stiles has been threatened by far more terrifying beings than Lex Luthor, and while he noted the thinly veiled hints Luthor worked into the conversation at the First Responders Benefit (Lex is also good at alien puns and outer-space references), he smiled back, showing his teeth. If Luthor is any kind of intelligent, he knows exactly who Stiles is, and where he’s from. Enough weirdness has gone down in Beacon Hills, with Stiles on the periphery, that he’s not surprised Lex sizes him up instead of dismissing him. There’s history there, between Clark and Lex - one shitty small town, piles of glowing green rock, disapproving fathers and judgemental townsfolk and public masks and private truths and a generous helping of sexual tension. They were friends once, Stiles knows, and every time Clark sets a LuthorCorp subsiduary alight, disappears unethical research or exposes dangerous practices, Stiles recognises the look in his eyes. The knowledge that one day, Clark might have to stop Lex, for good. That he’s never killed anyone before, but will take Lex’s life without hesitation if his hand is forced.

 

The first time an enterprising young villain comes after _Stiles_  instead of Lois Lane (and damn the cellphone and the blog that caught a caped Superman lifting Stiles down from the dangling skywalk on the day of its grand opening, after it was sabotaged by eco-terrorists whose skin was _literally_ green) as a message to Superman, Stiles has the kid (and he is just a kid, though his homemade spandex and plastic suit is impressive) curled up and whimpering, hogtied with Stiles’ belt, by the time the police arrive. It’s not until Stiles has given his statement, hidden his taser from police disapproval (it’s law-enforcement voltage) and the furious would-be villain has been hauled away and an EMT is carefully stitching the tiny cut on Stiles’ cheekbone thanks to someone’s fragile plastic gauntlets (sometimes you have to take the first hit to make sure that once you hit back, the fight is over) that Clark, Stiles’ next-of-kin, shows up, looking slightly frantic and forgetting to fake being out of breath.

 

Clark’s eyes narrow in the way Stiles knows means x-ray vision, and Stiles suddenly wishes he’d worn his lacy underwear today. He grins at Clark, ignoring the way the EMT tuts at him as she finishes, and steps over to where Clark is practically vibrating.

 

“I’m fine,” Stiles says. 

 

Clark babies him all the way home, though, and Stiles lets him, leaning into the strong arms and blazing heat of Clark’s inhuman physiology. Stiles isn’t delicate, and Clark knows it, but as soon as they’re safely inside their apartment, door locked and bolted behind them, Clark lifts Stiles effortlessly, using one arm tight around Stiles’ back to hold him up, one big hand under Stiles’ ass as he unzips, unbuttons, unbuckles everything Stiles is wearing, mouth hot and unyielding even as he carries Stiles to the bedroom. 

 

Stiles is dumped unceremoniously on the bed, a breeze shifting over newly-revealed skin as Clark speeds out of his own clothes and ditches the glasses. There’s no heat vision in use, but Clark’s eyes smoulder, and he _looks_  otherworldly, backlit by the light pollution streaming in the high window, a body that could well be made out of marble, unyielding smooth skin that is somehow still so very soft. Stiles swallows, mouth dry. This is _Kal-El_ looking down at him, the last son of Krypton, power and beauty and _restraint_ , all contained strength and grace as he reaches out, tugs at Stiles’ foot, yanks him down the bed.

 

Clark’s big hand is scorching around the fragile bones of his ankle, and Stiles’ cock twitches, as it always does, at the thought of giving himself over to all that power, all that strength. Clark would never hurt him, Stiles knows, but there’s something about the way Clark's grip is unyielding as he kisses his way up Stiles’ leg, the way he plants a hand on Stiles’ other thigh and spreads his legs wide, not a trace of the mild-mannered reporter and his bashful smile to be seen as he smirks down at the way Stiles’ cock is flushed and full.

 

Clark’s mouth makes contact with the flexing muscles of Stiles’ belly, just above where the sticky, weeping head of his dick touches. Stiles makes a high-pitched sound in protest, as a hot tongue traces the outline of his one defined ab muscle. 

 

“You are the _meanest_  alien I know,” Stiles grumps, sentence trailing off into a gasp as Clark rubs the unfairly soft skin of his cheek against the length of Stiles’ dick. “Come up here and _kiss me_ , damnit."

 

Clark complies, and then they’re chest-to-chest, Stiles firmly pinned under Clark’s bulk, as he nips at Clark’s lip, tiny, teasing kisses designed to deny Clark the deep, possessing kiss he wants, until Clark makes a noise not unlike a growl and brings a hand up to grip Stiles’ jaw, to move him where the stronger of the two wants, licking into Stiles’ mouth to taste and claim.

 

“You nearly gave me a heart attack,” Clark pulls back to say, and when Stiles just raises an eyebrow, places a hand on Clark’s well-defined chest, complete with perfectly evenly beating heart, Clark rolls his eyes and kisses him hard as if in admonition. 

 

“I worry,” he admits, between kisses. “I shouldn’t, you’re smart and capable and strong, but-"

 

“But it’s human nature to worry,” Stiles finishes, can feel the sappy grin on his face. Because nurture wins out here, this baby sent across the stars to forge a new empire was raised with love and kindness, and is more human than some people Stiles knows.

 

Clark’s own gaze is soft, and it’s only when his hard cock brushes Stiles’ that he smirks, one side of that gorgeous mouth cooked upwards, and returns to the important business of kissing his way down Stiles’ chest.

 

There’s something about Clark aroused, something Stiles will never admit because his good, kind-hearted boyfriend would be horrified at the implications, but whenever Clark’s horny, whenever he’s close and warm and smelling _so damn good_ , Stiles’ body just… _responds_. His dick feels hard enough to dent even Clark’s invulnerable skin, and he’s more than happy to spread his legs wide, to give himself over to Clark’s pleasure, to go where Clark moves him, obligingly bending the knee Clark puts over his shoulder, arching at the scorching wet sensation tracing down to the furled muscle of Stiles’ hole, and Stiles is boneless under the onslaught of that inhumanly strong tongue, the way Clark fingers him open, still so gentle, so very aware of human fragility.

 

HIs hole is wet now, spit and lube, ceding easily to the demands of Clark’s fingers, the way those clever digits rub in all the right places, slicking the soft, delicate places inside Stiles. Faster than the blink of an eye, Stiles is hovering over Clark, who is now reclined against their pillows, strong hands holding Stiles in place as he adjusts to suddenly balancing on his knees, waiting out the momentary swoon at the sudden change in position.

 

“Oh, so I’m doing all the hard work, am I?” Stiles asks, pretending not to notice the way Clark’s slicked-up dick is nudging at his hole, the way the stretched-out muscle wants to let him in. He pats Clark’s firm abs, rocking his hips so the head of Clark’s dick skids over his rim. 

 

“I like the look of you like this,” he says, watches the way Clark’s gaze goes hot as Stiles undulates above him. “All the strength in the world, and you’re going to stay right there and be good while I ride you."

 

“Do you have any - uh - any plans to actually do that this century?” Clark tries to sass, but he’s somewhat derailed when Stiles reaches behind himself and jacks Clark’s dick, grip exactly the right kind of hard.

 

Stiles clucks his tongue. “So impatient,” he says, mock-casual, other hand palming his own cock, even as he uses his grip on Clark to rub the other man’s dick against his hole, teasing.

 

“You’ll get what you’re given,” he smirks, but he’s lining them up, letting go of his own dick so he can plant two hands against Clark’s chest and drop down on Clark’s cock, levering himself down in little stops and starts, lowering an inch before he lifts back up again, adjusting to the stretch. Stiles wasn’t a virgin when they met, but Clark was new to men, and Stiles thinks that maybe he never realised just how big his dick really _is_ , long and thick and so very good at filling Stiles completely, as if remaking Stiles’ insides to fit, so nobody else will ever be good enough, be as satisfying.

 

Stiles works himself up and down for a good few minutes, taking the stretch and feeling the pleasurable ache as his body opens up around Clark, who’s being so very well behaved, clenching his jaw and flexing his stomach muscles instead of the hands that are still so gentle as they bracket Stiles’ hips.

 

Stiles settles himself down, all of Clark’s hot length inside him, and Clark is waiting, so patiently, for permission -

 

Stiles smirks, and clenches down.

 

He’s not surprised when Clark’s hands move to under his ass, lifting him bodily off Clark’s cock, before practically dropping him back down, forcing Stiles’ body to take all of him at once. Stiles’ breath whistles out between his teeth, chin dropping to his chest, and it’s all he can do to not go limp and boneless with pleasure, the sensation of Clark pulling him up and down his dick.

 

Then he really puts his back into it, hips snapping up and driving up into Stiles, who’s reduced to little whimpers, head thrown back as Clark’s big hands tighten on his hips (absentmindedly notes the way he’s much closer to the ceiling than is to be expected, because sometimes Stiles has sex in midair, knees clenched tight around the body beneath him), as he’s just _moved_ , _used_ , and he’d feel like nothing more than a hole if not for the infinite care in every movement, the restraint of the body underneath him.

 

Clark thrusts up, hard, dick pressing deep inside Stiles, powerful but still so perfectly held in check, and Stiles has to drop forward, planting a hand on Clark’s chest to keep his balance now they’re floating above the bed, Stiles grinning down at his very own gorgeous alien. He works his other hand faster on his cock, thumbing the sensitive place under the head as he clenches down around Clark, feeling the pressure build.

 

Clark looks up at him, love and trust and something close to awe on his face, and Stiles is coming apart, he's flying, seeing stars, galaxies, _multitudes_  in Clark’s eyes.

 

(Yeah, so, the sex is also - wait for it - out of this world.)


End file.
